Doctor Who_ Hope - Mark Clapham [4]
So, what are you doing?
The Doctors head darted up at Anjis query, a look of confusion passing over his features, as if he wasnt sure what to say. Was he worrying about how to explain something so complex, or unsure of what to tell her? He seemed almost embarrassed.
Im seeing how far the TARDIS will go, he said, slightly coyly. Pushing into the future, seeing how long we can go in one trip. Its about time the old girl had her abilities stretched a bit. I want to see how far she can go.
In the time she had been with the Doctor, Anji had never quite managed to understand his relationship with the TARDIS. The TARDIS was a machine, and yet the relationship was very personal. Perhaps it was the very fragility inherent in flying a box through the cold expanses of time and space that made it vital for the Doctor to believe in the TARDIS as something more, the intensity of the journey that made a vehicle into both a home and a friend. How much better to think that ones survival rests in the hands of a friend, a sentient being, than life and death depending on the cold workings of circuits and engines? Either way, Anji knew how much the Doctor valued the TARDIS, how desperately he protected it from outside influence and how jealously he protected its secrets. This exercise, this marathon journey into the far future, was some kind of test of fealty, as if the Doctor were willing the TARDIS to go further, to push on, to show how far she would go just for him.
How far into the future are we going? asked Fitz, strolling over to the Doctors side.
As far as we can, said the Doctor.
Anji wondered how far would be too far.
For some people an office is just a place of work, a functional area separate from the rest of their lives. For others it is a home away from home, desk littered with family photographs, personal items lining the shelves, certificates and suchlike on the wall. For other, even more desperate cases the office can become their primary home, gaining the constant, lived in quality of an adolescents bedroom, a place where life is lived constantly, where the evidence of eating and sleeping is as prevalent as the work being done.
The office of Powlin, Chief of the Hope City Militia, defiantly fitted into the latter category. High up in one of the coastal watchtowers, accessible from a winding stairwell, it was a small, functional room buried in paper, crime scene images covering all available surfaces. High on the wall a narrow window looked out over the bleak sea, while a dull light bulb hung from the ceiling. Powlin currently had his feet up on the desk, but he wasnt sitting at it. He was slumped, lightly sleeping, in a low, battered chair in the corner of the room, a case file open on his knee. The office chair that nominally belonged with his desk sat, unused and unloved, in a corner, a pile of books and dirty laundry dumped on top of it.
Suddenly, the intercom on the wall burst into life, and Powlin was awake. The voices of militiamen on duty echoed across the comms system, discussing some kind of emergency. A man was in distress nearby, screaming murder, and officers were on the way to investigate.
And Powlin justknew this was the break he was after. He was out of the door in seconds, pulling his heavy coat on as he went. He caught a glimpse of himself on the way out. Yellowing skin, heavily lined. A face sagging under the weight of responsibility.
Perhaps tonight his main responsibility would be resolved, and a little of that weight would lift. Maybe.
Anji saw the confusion pass over the Doctors face as he tried to adjust one of the controls.
Whats wrong? she asked.
Its stuck, said the Doctor simply. His confusion began to turn to panic, his voice slightly desperate. He tried another switch. This one too. He tried another couple of switches. Theyre all locking. Ive been pushing